


Goodnight, Love

by SilkySatan



Series: Sometimes Stiles is sad [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Student Stiles, Communication, Depressed Stiles, Depression, Eventual Fluff, Excessive use of pet names, Happy Ending, M/M, Pet Names, Peter is a sweetheart, Sad, Sleepy Kisses, cute fic, fluff sort of, stiles is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkySatan/pseuds/SilkySatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is feeling weird in a bad way, so he wakes Peter up to talk about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight, Love

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote half of this at night and the other half at like 4 in the afternoon so I'm sorry if it seems like two different writing styles lol

Stiles sniffled softly, looking up at Peter’s closed eyes in the dark. He was wrapped in his boyfriend’s thick arms, face pressed against Peter’s firm chest. He inhaled deeply, letting himself be comforted by the warm smell of Peter’s chest. He smelled of spruce and woodsmoke, the kind of warmth that only comes after cold. But it wasn’t enough to soothe the ache just below Stiles’ throat. He tapped at Peter’s waist gently, not trusting his voice just yet. Peter looked down at him after just the first tap.  
  

“What is it, love?” he asked quietly. He seemed almost as though he was trying not to disturb Stiles, even though Stiles had disturbed him.  
  

“Peter, I…,” Stiles let his voice trail off when he heard it crack, burying his face back in Peter’s chest and sniffling again. “I feel weird.”  
  

“Weird how?” he asked with concern. Peter sat up and turned on the lamp, pulling Stiles up to sit next to him and rest his head on Peter’s chest.  
  

“Sort of… bad…,” Stiles choked out, wrapping his arms around Peter’s torso and squeezing tightly, hiding his face.  
  

“It’s okay, sweetie, tell me what’s wrong,” Peter soothed, rubbing up and down Stiles’ back.  
  

“How can I tell you what’s wrong when I don’t even know?” Stiles questioned, looking up at Peter with puffy red eyes.  
  

“Just try to describe it for me. I know it can be hard to put into words sometimes,” he whispered.  
  

“I don’t think I can say it. Could I write it down? I think that would make it easier for me,” Stiles suggested, moving away slightly.  
  

“Of course, love,” Peter cooed, rubbing Stiles’ back some more. “Let’s move into the den, okay, sweetheart? I’ll make some tea while you write it down for me.” Stiles nodded softly, prompting Peter to pick him up. Peter lifted him easily, carrying him bridal style to the sofa in the den and flicking on the lamp. “I’ll be right back,” he said into Stiles’ neck as he pulled back. Stiles looked up at the partially illuminated ceiling, feeling tears roll down his cheeks and to his neck. He sniffled again, rolling onto his right side and looking at the rich oak of the coffee table. As he lay there, tears clouding his vision, Peter’s legs, clad in pale blue plaid pajama pants, came into view.  
  

“I brought you a pen and a notepad. Do you want me to stay here or leave you alone?” Peter always seemed conscious of little things that might make Stiles more comfortable.  
  

“Can you stay here with me? I don’t really like being alone right now,” he sniffled.  
  

“Of course, darling. I already put the water on, too.” Stiles smiled up at him weakly and shifted so he was leaning on one arm of the couch with his legs over Peter’s lap.  
  

“Okay, I’m going to write now. Don’t look, okay?” he asked softly.  
  

“Of course not, love. I’ll just rest my eyes a bit.” Stiles waited for Peter to lean back against the couch and close his eyes. Peter had brought his favorite pen and the legal pad they used for writing notes to each other. It usually had a home on the kitchen counter with the two pens: Peter’s dark blue Pilot G-2 07 and Stiles’ dark green gel pen. Finally, Stiles started writing:  
  

 _“I think I feel sad. I feel like I’m sitting at the stream by the shed and watching the water run over my toes, and knowing I’m going to die someday. I feel like it’s a cold winter day and my feet are becoming numb but I don’t care because I’m going to die someday. I feel like I’m looking into the sun and it’s hurting my eyes and I can’t bring myself to blink but I don’t care because I’m going to die someday. I kind of feel like when you’re smiling and suddenly you just start crying; or maybe I feel like when you’re crying and you find yourself smiling through it anyway. I feel like waking up late on a Sunday morning, or early on a Monday. But mostly I think I feel like I’m sitting on a hillside and it’s late in the afternoon. The sun is low in the sky but it’s not setting. The air is warm but the breeze gives me goosebumps. I think I’m alone. And I don’t know what this feeling is in my chest. It’s the kind that sits just below your throat. Sometimes it flutters a little, and you feel like you either have to laugh or cry but you always end up crying. I feel like I always end up crying. The stream is rushing over my toes but instead of feeling it I’m letting myself go numb. How do I stop going numb? How do I get warm again? My feet are so cold. I think I might be getting frostbite. Maybe we’ll have to cut off my toes. Maybe I want to cut off my toes.”_  
  

Stiles had to stop there, because he was crying too hard to keep writing.  
 

“P-Peter, I think I’m done.” Peter looked up sharply, apparently having dozed off. It was pretty late.  
  

“Okay, love, let me just get the tea.” Stiles watched him go, tears welling up once more. He hated being alone. It gave him far too much time to himself. With himself.  
  

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I just brought the variety box,” Peter explained, setting down the box – packed full of all their favorite teas – and a bowl of sugar on the coffee table. He handed Stiles a steaming mug of water and gingerly took the legal pad out of his hands, taking a sip of his own tea. Stiles chose his favorite berry tea, adding only a small amount of sugar, and took a sip, trying hard not to think about Peter reading what he had written. The tea needed to steep, but Stiles chose to ignore that and kept drinking it. He liked that it hurt a little as it slipped down his throat. His eyes flicked up to Peter’s face, finding an indecipherable blankness where his face used to be. Peter seemed to still be reading, so Stiles went back to drinking his tea.  
  

Peter’s eyes lifted up from the paper slowly, catching upon Stiles’ face. He was looking down into the mug – his favorite. He was beautiful, really and truly. His eyelashes cast long shadows across his cheeks, the yellow light giving him a soft warm tint. The tears in his big brown doe eyes shone brightly, reflecting the light from the lamp next to him. The tip of his nose and his cheeks were red. His lips were parted slightly, pink and a bit chapped but full and shiny. His skin was a warm cream color in this light, the freckles and moles accentuating his smooth paleness in beautiful contrast. “Sweetheart, come here,” Peter said softly, reaching out with his free hand.  
  

He set the legal pad down on the end table behind him and drew Stiles up in his arms. He pulled Stiles as close to his body as possible, widening his legs by letting one fall to the floor and letting him curl up between them. “You have so much to learn,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead.  
  

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked blankly, staring at the coffee table again.  
  

“I mean that everyone feels this way sometimes. And even if it is deeper than a fleeting emotion, we can work with that. You’ll be okay. That I can promise.”  
  

“How can you promise that?”  
  

“Because I won’t let anything else happen. There’s always a way to work through these things,” Peter murmured, stroking the nape of Stiles’ neck. Stiles sighed, nuzzling Peter’s chest and smelling him again. The scent was still comforting, even if it didn’t completely help.  
  

“I guess. If you say so. It just doesn’t really feel like it right now, you know?”  
  

“Of course I know, sweetheart. Once upon a time, I went through something a lot like this. But, as you can tell, I never had to cut off my toes,” Peter laughed, wiggling his toes. Stiles smiled despite himself. “And we’ll never cut off yours. They’re much too cute,” Peter cajoled, touching Stiles’ small feet with his own. Stiles laughed, looking up at Peter with shining eyes.  
  

“Do you promise?”  
  

“Of course I promise,” Peter whispered, taking Stiles’ hand in his own. “Are you alright now?”  
  

“I think so,” Stiles answered, nodding against Peter’s chest.  
  

“Then off to bed, buttercup. I believe you have an early class tomorrow,” Peter said in a mockingly reproachful tone. Stiles laughed and then squealed as Peter picked him up in his arms bouncily.  
  

“Wait, my tea!” Stiles laughed, reaching down for it. Peter leaned down much farther than he needed to to pick it up, letting Stiles’ outstretched arm touch the floor before grabbing it in his free hand. He carried both the teacup and his boyfriend to the bedroom, setting both down gently when they arrived; not in the same place, of course. Peter sat patiently by Stiles’ side as he finished his tea, letting Stiles tell him about the psychology class he had in the morning. It was at 9:30, just 6 hours from now. Stiles expected to be a bit cranky. When Stiles finished his tea, Peter took it into the kitchen for him, also cleaning up his own mug, the sugar, and the box of tea before turning off the light in the living room. When he got back to the bedroom, Stiles had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around Peter’s pillow. Peter took the pillow gently from Stiles’ grip, waking him up in the process. Stiles looked up at him, blearily smiling.  
  

“Goodnight, love,” Peter whispered before pressing a gentle kiss to Stiles’ lips and turning out the light.


End file.
